It All Started When
by TomFoolery
Summary: Whenever someone asks Amanda how a human schoolteacher could have ever met and married a Vulcan ambassador, she always has a story ready. It's never the same story, but as any good storyteller knows, there's always an element of truth in every fiction. A collection of how they met one shots.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **I've had so many Sarek/Amanda origins stories in my head for years now. Some of them have been fully fleshed out into novel-length fan fictions, but I still have nearly a dozen more ideas. The problem is, I'm pretty sure I lack the stamina and creativity to write ten more fully unique slow burn, 100,000+ word stories.

Then it occurred to me…why not just make a compendium of one-shots revolving around Amanda telling the unlikely story of how they met to nosy inquirers, fancifully changing it up each time just to keep her audience on their toes?

I can't promise this story will be updated with any regularity due to three other open stories and a life I occasionally have to live, but each of the chapters are designed to be standalone stories so there won't be any cliffhangers. :)

I'm also willing to make project somewhat interactive. I have ten very different basic plot lines in mind, but if you're absolutely dying to see a small personal head canon woven into one of these tales, let me know and I'll see what I can do. I'll be happy to give credit where it's due, of course.

* * *

Spock's hands tucked back into the soil, turning over granular debris. The soft sand mixed with the rough pebbles brushing his skin was a delightful sensory symphony.

"Spock, can you hand me another flavinit bulb?"

Without saying a word, he lifted his hands from the dusty dirt, collected one of the palm-sized rhizomes, and placed it in his mother's outstretched hand.

"You're very quiet," she remarked as she plopped the bulb into the flower bed with unusual gusto.

He dismissed the impulse to make a remark about her affinity for describing plainly evident facts and returned to tilling the soil with his bare hands. He loved gardening and he especially loved having this private time with her, but he did not love her probing questions.

"Is something wrong, Spock?"

And there it was. He clenched his jaw and began to dig. Several years ago she might have chosen a nonsensical term of endearment such as _baby_ or _honey_ instead of his given name, but he sensed his father's protests had finally cured her of this human habit.

"Spock?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"I don't believe you."

That forced him to look at her. Her eyes were riddled with concern and apprehension. She was so easy to read. Sometimes he loved that about her, but other times it was such an embarrassment.

"Does it have anything to do with meeting T'Pring yesterday?"

He sucked in a slow breath and tried to remember his training. Emotions were to be controlled, swallowed, pressed so far into the back of the mind they became irrelevant. Too bad his heart began racing and his jaw began to quiver. He pushed his hands still further into the dirt so she wouldn't notice the shaking.

"Do you not like her?"

"I do not know her," he said, doing a very poor job of modulating the hostility in his tone.

"But you will get to know each other."

What Spock didn't say, what he would _never_ say, was that he did not _wish_ to know her. He didn't need to. She wasn't any different than any other Vulcan child. Most of his peers looked upon his half-human form with curiosity at best and contempt at worst, but T'Pring's eyes had held a unique sort of disgust he hadn't anticipated.

Her father had to force her to touch his hands during the bonding ceremony but in the end, they had gone through with it. He was now bonded and betrothed to a girl who hated him. What did it even mean to feel bonded? He thought he would feel different but all he felt was shame and isolation.

"She does not like me," he whispered.

"Spock—"

"Why do I have to be bonded to anyone?" he interjected, no longer bothering to conceal his frustration.

"I know your father talked to you about things that are going to happen when you start growing up," she said in that soft tone that she always used whenever she was preparing to defend Vulcan logic even though she clearly didn't believe in it herself. "You're going to want to find a partner."

Spock cringed. He had a rudimentary understanding of sexual reproduction from his elementary biology classes, but discussing such things with his mother was as appealing as bonding with T'Pring had been.

"I do not like her and she does not like me," he insisted. "We do not need to be familiar with each other for me to know that."

"Your perspective might change when you grow up," she replied. "And so might hers. You're both only seven. If would probably be surprising if you _did_ like each other."

"Why can I not choose my own mate?"

"There's nothing that says you can't." She dropped the spade into the flower bed, dusted her dirt from her gloves, and tossed them to the ground. "Lots of people don't end up marrying the people they were bonded to as children. Your own father didn't."

"If bonds can be so easily broken, then why make them?" He had wanted to ask his father this, but he secretly feared his father would have no good answer.

"We arranged this match for you _just in case_."

"And what if T'Pring finds someone else she likes more than me? What if I do not find anyone? Then what will I do?"

"Oh, Spock," she sighed, leaning toward him to pull him into a hug.

His human instinct to accept his mother's affection battled his Vulcan training to reject it. He decided to allow her motherly touch—his father and Michael were out of the house and there would be no one there to witness their rather emotional exchange.

"Listen to me," she said, pulling away from the embrace and grabbing him by the shoulders. "There's someone out there for everyone. Sometimes you find them in the most unexpected places."

"Like how you and father found each other?"

Her lips curved into a smile. "Something like that."

"You were a schoolteacher," he mused. "How did you ever come to meet a Vulcan ambassador?"

Her eyes began to twinkle. "A lot of people have asked me that question over the years."

He deliberated whether he ought to have asked. It was a very personal question, but she _was_ his mother.

"The story's changed a bit over time," she continued, glancing upward to observe a fire hawk circling overhead.

"How can it change?" he asked. "The truth is the truth."

"Sure it is," she agreed. "But there can be different versions of the truth, depending on who wants to know."

Spock furrowed his brow and stuffed his fingertips back into the flower bed. "You do not make sense."

"Well, there was the time I met your father while I was staying in his house as an exchange student," she said, touching her index finger to her mouth. "That was a good one. Then for a while, I told people he was my neighbor on Earth. The stories get a little wilder with each telling. I think my favorite was the time we switched bodies in a transporter accident."

His abject shock overrode his logic. "What?"

"Oh! Or maybe the time we met when he crashed landed on Earth in the year 1969."

Spock froze and turned his head to stare at his mother. "Those stories are _true_?"

"Maybe," she winked. "Maybe not."

"How can they all be true when they are so markedly different?"

"There's always a little kernel of truth in every fiction. Besides, sometimes the real truth is stranger than fiction."

"The truth is the truth," he reasserted. "It is illogical to lie."

"That's a very Vulcan answer," she admitted, offering him her spade and a particularly fat flavinit bulb.

"How many versions of the truth have you told?" he asked, plunging the gardening tool into the dirt with renewed focus.

"I can't even remember," she laughed. "I just know it all started when…"


	2. The Swap

**2233**

"You have a very lovely home." Sarah's wide eyes scanned the elegant entry hall. She was sweating, though whether from nervousness or the intense heat of the afternoon sun, Amanda wasn't sure.

"Thank you." Amanda smiled. It _was_ a very lovely, very impressive house. Even after three years, the S'chn T'gai manor at the outskirts of Shi'Kahr took her breath away.

"It's almost like a museum," Sarah marveled. "I want to thank you and the ambassador so much for inviting me to stay with you."

Amanda observed the young woman's dazed face and submissive posture and thought, "_They'll eat her alive_." Then she said, "Sarek and I are so happy to have you."

When Sarek had suggested hosting students as part of a study abroad program, Amanda balked at the idea of opening her home to a stranger. Her husband was so rarely at home these days—one diplomatic crisis seemed to bleed into another—and she knew the business of hosting anyone would largely fall to her.

It was hard enough keeping up with a toddler and she wasn't sure she wanted to babysit college students. Her imagination had instantly jumped to the worst-case scenarios and she pictured being forced to cohabitate with a sullen Tellarite who loved arguing in the fashion of his people, or a ditzy Andorian drama student on an extreme diet, or a surly Ithenite with poor hygiene who kept odd hours.

Then he mentioned it was the Terran embassy who'd proposed the idea to him because of his human wife, and they were especially interested in placing one or two young human women in their house while they completed a four-month internship at the Vulcan Institute of Art. The possibility of a real human to commiserate with during her sojourn in the land of no emotion was all Amanda needed to readily agree.

Now a month later, here she was, Sarah Marsh from Manitoba standing in her entry hall, bright-eyed and exceptionally bushy-tailed, even if a little depleted from the climate. It was a shame she would only be here four months, because that was generally about how long it took the human body to adapt to the gravity and extreme temperatures of the planet.

"I just _love_ Vulcan culture," she gushed. "I've been learning the language for the past ten years. I like to think I'm pretty good."

Amanda forced a polite smile. Every human Vulcanophile thought they could manage decent Vuhlkansu, but according to Sarek, their accents were so grating he could barely understand them. It all sounded like gibberish to her, though after several years of practice, even she was able to distinguish the posh Shi'Kahran accent from the more inelegant Golian lilt.

"If you can master it, you're doing better than me," Amanda confessed. "I hardly speak a word."

"_Really_?" Sarah blurted. "How do you manage to live here?"

"I mostly grunt and use rudimentary sign language."

Sarah's face went paler than it already was. Worried she'd pushed her too far, Amanda added, "That and I've never met a Vulcan who didn't also speak Standard."

Sarah then she erupted into a fit of high-pitched laughing. Amanda smiled politely. Yes, Vulcan was going to devour this poor girl.

"Why don't I show you to your room?" Amanda asked, gesturing toward the staircase. "It's across the hall from my son's room and he's going through the terrible twos, but it's large room with a private patio."

"I'm sure it's perfect," Sarah beamed. "And I can't wait to meet your little boy."

"He's napping right now but I'm sure he'll love having another person around to pester."

"Oh I _love_ children. I think it's so amazing you and the ambassador have a child."

Amanda tensed, wondering what she was implying. She already dealt with enough people thinking her half-human son was a freak of nature and the last thing she wanted was to expose him to a person who would view him as a novelty.

"I'm kind of hoping I can meet someone while I'm here," Sarah continued. "Vulcans are so dreamy."

It was at that moment Amanda was grateful she'd spent the past four years learning to reign in her emotions. A version of her from a previous life might have brayed with laughter. She wouldn't deny her husband was handsome and had a lot of excellent qualities, but she would also never pretend that being married to someone who thought smiling was akin to nudity was easy.

"You're in luck I guess. There are a lot of bachelors on Vulcan." What she didn't say was the Vulcan singles scene was something that more closely resembled a monastery than a human nightclub.

"How did you and the ambassador meet?" Sarah asked once they reached the top of the stairs. "That must be an interesting story."

Amanda thought to herself a moment, a tiny smile spreading across her lips. "Well, it all started when…"

* * *

**2228**

Amanda slid her hands over the cold metal portal, awestruck by the beauty of space. After days of gazing out at the stars, she hadn't lost her wonder for the magnificence of it all. Peeking out of the very righthand corner of the glass, a bright red and orange planet glowed. They were here.

She heard a door open behind her. Certain one of her fellow teachers had come to collect her, she preemptively called, "I'll be right there."

"Excuse me, Miss Grayson?" The voice was baritone and somber.

She whipped around to find the Vulcan ambassador to Earth standing in the doorway, hands steepled in front of him. His face was perfectly smooth and devoid of any identifiable emotion. Was he annoyed, pleased, constipated? Who could say?

"I was just enjoying the view," she said, gesturing to the portal. "Your home world is very pretty."

He wandered toward the long window. "I have not seen Vulcan in nearly two years."

"That's a long time to be away from home. Have you missed it?"

His lips narrowed slightly. "We are due in the transporter room."

"T-transporter room?"

"Yes."

"The transporter room?" she repeated, her mouth suddenly dry.

The microexpressions of his face told a story of puzzlement. "Yes, it is a room containing a transporter that will beam us down to the planet's surface."

"I know what a transporter is," she said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. "I just thought we would take a shuttle. We took a shuttle when we boarded."

"The transporter is a safer mode of travel than a shuttle."

"Right."

Amanda understood the statistics. Transporters were supposed to be _extremely_ safe. They were becoming more common in civilian use and all the people she knew who used them swore by them. Amanda on the other hand didn't mind enduring a bit of traffic if it meant keeping all her molecules properly assembled.

She wanted to argue with the man, but what could she say? Ambassador Sarek had been most gracious to invite a delegation of the Federation Teacher's Union to tour the Vulcan Learning Center and then had doubled down on his generosity when he agreed to transport them in his personal diplomatic shuttle. Making a fuss would be rude, even if the thought of a transporter terrified her to bits.

He waved a hand toward the door in a single controlled movement. "I believe they are standing by to transport us."

She did her best to put on a brave face and followed him out into the corridor. It was her first time getting a really good look at him.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever and desperate to fill the silence, she exclaimed, "I want to thank you so much for letting us travel with you."

His head and eyes remained forward as he replied, "You are welcome."

The next moments were a blur. He guided her into a room with a long desk and three large circles along the opposite wall. No matter how hard she tried, her courage was obviously cracking. The ambassador directed her to the circle on the far left and she walked there on shaky legs, doing her best to appear cool and collected. When he took his place beside her in the center circle and the Vulcan man behind the desk began mumbling things about analyzing profiles and matter streams, she noticed how difficult it was becoming to breathe. She smiled to hide it.

The last memories she had of that room were the ambassador looking over his shoulder and telling her she was perfectly safe, the transporter officer shouting something about a radiation surge, and a warm feeling trickling down from the top of her head. She closed her eyes and tried to swallow the scream that rose up through her throat.

And then there was silence. Had they made it?

A man said, "Welcome to Vulcan, ambassador. Live long and prosper."

Why was he _shouting_? She opened her eyes and shuddered. There was a Vulcan man looking directly at her with his hand outstretched in a V-shape, but she barely noticed him. They were in a strange room and everything was monochrome, like all the blues and greens and purples had been banished from existence. Assuming it was a trick of the light or maybe just Vulcan design aesthetic, she blinked furiously. When she reached her hands up to rub her eyes, the motion felt all wrong. Her arms seemed to be too long. Had the transporter stretched out her arms?

She was too busy panicking at the thought of having orangutan arms to really hear and process what the people around her were saying. Then she actually uttered the ridiculous words, "My arms are too long!" _That_was when she really started to panic.

Instead of her usual feminine pitch, her words came out in a man's deep drawl. She clutched her throat with her hand and wasn't sure what was more upsetting, the fact that her oversized hands seemed to have fingers that were much too long or that her throat held a distinctive bump with the faintest amount of scratchy stubble.

"Please try to calm yourself," called a woman. Her voice was so loud and so familiar.

When Amanda turned to her, her first thought was that she was staring in a mirror. She was looking at herself, but the image remained frozen and didn't match any of her movements. She reached out to touch the Amanda facsimile and finally realized that her too-long arms were wearing unfamiliar clothes.

"It appears there has been an unfortunate incident with the transporter," the other Amanda said.

"You said this was safe!" What should have been a high-pitched shriek came out more like a masculine battle cry.

She couldn't breathe. She began clawing at the tight fabric around her neck, muttering, "What is this? What happened to me?"

People were moving around her but she could barely hear them over the sound of blood rushing through her ears. When a hand touched her shoulder, she swatted it away. When it made a second attempt, her muscles moved based on some distant instinct, gripping the wrist of the offending hand and twisting until there was a crunch of bones and a stifled yelp.

She had broken someone's arm on instinct like it was _nothing_. The terrified voice inside her pleaded, "Leave me alone!" but when the words actually escaped from her mouth, they did so as an authoritative command. The hand touched her shoulder a third time and there was a pinch of pain, then blackness.

* * *

"We have finally reached Dr. Arojula," Dr. Sendak said. "She will come, but she is in the Laurentian system and will not arrive for three days."

"And she cannot provide consultation to one of our Vulcan healers to remedy this situation in a timelier manner?" Sarek asked, still unsettled by the feminine tenor of his voice.

"Dr. Arojula is the leading expert on inverted consciousness syndrome and is the only physician to have successfully treated it. It is so very rare and attempts by others to correct it have been met with mixed results. I believe it is logical to wait for her professional opinion."

Sarek knew he was correct, but this was _highly_ inconvenient. He could not appear in public as a human woman and he certainly could not meet the Governor of Nausicaa in this state. "Then we will wait for Dr. Arojula."

Sarek shuffled to his desk and slumped down in his chair. He was exhausted, thirsty, and sweating profusely. His skin was also slowly erupting in strange, itchy red sores.

"Excuse me, doctor, but I thought our human guests were given the standard tri-ox compound to help them adapt to our climate prior to disembarking the ship."

"They were," Dr. Sendak replied. "I administered the correct dosage to Miss Grayson yesterday."

So this was how humans _truly_ experienced Vulcan? He pitied them for their frailty. "I am not feeling well."

Dr. Sendak extracted the tricorder from his bag and approached. "I can administer another dose, but it will not completely alleviate the symptoms. Only a long period of acclimation can do that."

"I understand," Sarek replied. He held out his left forearm. "This body also appears to be developing a rash."

Dr. Sendak studied the wheals carefully. He pulled a thin tube from the end of his tricorder and collected a small vial of blood from his thin, pink arm. Red, foreign blood spilled into the vial. The doctor reinserted the collection tube in the tricorder, waited several seconds for the internal machinery to process the sample, and replied, "It appears you are suffering a hypersensitivity response."

"An allergy?"

"Yes. I will collect a full medical history from—" Dr. Sendak's words failed him. He was clearly uncertain how to refer to the person lying sedated in Sarek's guest room upstairs. "I will speak with the patient. In the meantime, I can also provide you with an antihistamine to alleviate the discomfort."

Dr. Sendak delivered the promised medication and as he excused himself, Sarek thanked him for his treatment and discretion and asked him to send in his aide, Vedak. He sat in silence for nearly a minute, allowing the gravity of the situation to settle. He gazed down over the feminine form he currently occupied, marveling at the strange hue of Miss Grayson's shirt while absentmindedly scratching the hives on his forearms.

It was like no other color he'd ever seen and because he had never encountered it, he did not know how to describe it. Was it green? Blue? He had heard of those colors from his human staff.

It was common knowledge that humans could visually perceive a far wider range of the electromagnetic spectrum than Vulcans—a fluke of evolution due largely to the wavelengths of light allowed to pass through Earth's thicker atmosphere. Earth's vegetation had evolved to produce primarily green pigments and so human eyes had evolved to be able to see green.

While humans had the superior advantage in terms of visual acuity and color perception, their other senses left a lot to be desired. He could smell almost nothing and all sound seemed distant and muted. Perhaps that's why he shouldn't have been surprised when he turned around and noticed Vedak had snuck into the office and was standing patiently by his desk.

"You asked to see me, ambassador?"

"Yes," Sarek replied, inwardly cringing at the sound of his dainty human voice.

He glanced at Vedak's left wrist. It had been remarkable to watch the ease with which Miss Grayson snapped it when Vedak attempted to subdue her with a Vulcan nerve pinch. What was most fascinating, aside from watching her grapple with the sudden acquisition of strength, was the skill with which she'd managed it. Her consciousness was trapped in his body, but it was as though the most ancient part of his brain still lingered there and had worked in tandem with his muscles' memories of decades of martial arts training to defend his body from the threat her human mind believed it was facing.

"I see Dr. Sendak has repaired your arm."

"Yes."

He felt compelled to apologize, but it would be illogical to be sorry for what someone else had forced his body to do. Rather than dwell on the absurdity of their current predicament, he asked, "Dr. Arojula will arrive in three days. In the meantime, what progress have you made in adjusting my schedule?"

"I have canceled all your events through tomorrow afternoon, but the Nausicaan governor is due to arrive in twenty-three hours and insists on seeing you directly. I can attempt to persuade him to—"

"No," Sarek interrupted. "It has taken three years to get the Nausicaans to agree to a meeting. Z'auul is skittish and mistrustful, as you know. Attempting to alter the itinerary or substitute another mediator will make him suspicious."

"As will presenting yourself to him in your current state."

"A salient observation," Sarek intoned.

"Ambassador, I am prepared to follow whatever directive you give me, but I cannot see how you can hope to succeed—"

"Have you dismissed my household staff for the remainder of the week?" Sarek interjected, unwilling to entertain his subordinate's unhelpful, though not entirely _illogical_, pessimism.

Vedak drew in a short breath, clearly irritated at being interrupted. "I have."

"And the only people with knowledge of this incident are the people in this house, the transporter officer, and Dr. Arojula?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Have her colleagues asked after her?"

"I informed the Federation Teacher's Union that Miss Grayson has fallen ill and is being treated at a private medical facility and is unable to accept visitors at this time. I kept the details sparse and hopefully no one will investigate too closely, at least not for the next three days."

There was a knock at the door and Sarek turned to see Dr. Sendak waiting in the threshold. "The patient is asking to speak with you."

Sarek rose from his chair on trembling legs. "That will be all for now, Vedak."

"Ambassador, if I may ask—what do you plan to do?"

"I do not know," he replied, steadying himself on the desk. "It will depend upon what Miss Grayson is willing to do."

"You cannot mean to present her to Governor Z'auul as if she were yourself?"

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"She is a human school teacher!" Vedak exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his usually placid demeanor.

"Let me speak with her and consider our options, then I will inform you how we will proceed. In the meantime, begin processing an emergency security clearance for her. That will be all for now, Vedak."

Vedak opened his mouth to protest, but Sarek shot him a look of finality. He wondered what the expression must have looked like radiating off the features of a sweaty human woman, but apparently the look was stern enough to send Vedak on his way without further comment. Sarek followed Dr. Sendak up the stairs, pausing at the top to catch his breath and wipe beads of moisture from his forehead.

"Human physiology is not well adapted to conserving water," the healer remarked. "You will need to increase your fluid intake to avoid dehydration."

Sarek nodded. When he entered the guest room, it was jarring to see the image of himself gazing out the long window. She turned an eye to him and laughed aloud. The welts on his arms suddenly seemed itchier.

"You find something amusing?" he asked the image of himself by the window.

"You _don't_?" she laughed.

"No," he replied. How strange to hear himself laugh so openly.

"You know what's weird? It just occurred to me that no one has ever seen their own face—we've all only ever seen reflections. But I'm looking at my own face right now."

"It _is_ disconcerting," he agreed. "But it is far from amusing."

"How did this happen?" she said, whirling around. He scratched the hives on his arms, or more correctly, _her_arms.

"The transporter operator reported a burst of neutronic radiation during our transport. It is incredibly rare, and rarer still that it would be of sufficient intensity to scramble the neural patterns of two people in a matter stream."

"The condition is called inverted consciousness syndrome," Dr. Sendak added. "There have only ever been eight reported cases in all of medical literature."

"You said the transporter was _safe_," she said, hanging her head in her hands. Or more correctly, hanging _his_head in _his_ hands.

"The transporter _is_ safe, particularly compared to other modes of transport," Sarek replied. "But few things in the universe are universally safe. But we are fortunate. We were not killed and there is a physician who can restore us to our correct bodies."

"And that's you?" she snapped, looking at Dr. Sendak.

"No, I am Dr. Sendak," the healer replied. "Dr. Arojula is traveling from the Laurentian system and will arrive in three days."

"_Three days_?" she sneered, turning to Sarek. "I have to live in your body for three days?"

"I am not looking forward to it either, I assure you."

She roared with bitter laughter. "How am I supposed to explain this to people?"

"I was hoping you would not have to."

"Of course I have to! You don't think the other teachers I'm sharing a room with are going to have something to say when I walk through the door looking like you?"

"Shouting at me will not ameliorate the situation."

She sucked in a slow breath. "What am I supposed to do?"

"I am inviting you to stay in my home until Dr. Arojula can correct this situation. I had your things sent here. My household staff is taking a brief holiday and the Teacher's Union has been informed you are unwell and are being seen in a private medical facility. No one else needs to know what has happened."

"This is unbelievable." She placed her hands on her hips and sighed, casting a sidelong glance at him. Her eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with my arms? Why are you scratching them?"

"Your body appears to be experiencing hyperreactivity," Dr. Sendak explained. "This was why I asked if you had any history of allergy, before you started screaming at me and demanding to know who I was and where you were."

An unusual green color tinted the tips of her pointed ears and cheeks. She was _blushing_.

"I'm not allergic to anything that I know of," she said, scratching her head, an action which mused her hair and made it look very undignified. "But I've also never been to Vulcan."

"I will prescribe medication to alleviate the symptoms, but aside from that, you are both healthy and do not appear to be suffering any immediate negative effects. I can see there is little else for me to do."

When Dr. Sendak departed and the door closed behind him, Sarek tried to suppress a powerful feeling of isolation and foreboding, but found it almost impossible. He wondered if his dwindling logical faculties were the result of exhaustion or from trying to make sense of the world using a human brain, which had a structure that differed significantly from that of a Vulcan's.

"So what now?" his guest asked, waiting patiently by the staircase for direction.

"What would you like to do?"

Deep human expression peered at him through his own Vulcan eyes. She asked, "Does my voice really sound like that?"

"How do you expect me to respond?" he replied, not bothering to conceal the agitation in his tone. "I had never formally met you until this afternoon. How should I know what your voice sounds like?"

"Maybe it's just the stilted and extra formal way you're talking," she mused.

"I might add that I am unaccustomed to hearing myself speak in such a colloquial manner."

She shrugged. "Fair enough."

Then there was silence. She crossed her arms and glanced back toward the window. "Did I—did I break someone's arm? It's hard to remember everything that happened right after but I distinctly can remember someone grabbing my shoulder and then…"

"My aide, Vedak, tried to sedate you in the midst of your panic. You broke his wrist."

"How though? How could I have broken someone's arm?" she asked woefully. "Even if I wanted to, even if I knew _how_—"

"The consciousness inhabiting my body is yours, but the body is still mine," he replied. "I do not know for certain, but I hypothesize you have retained my lower brain functions. And I certainly do possess the strength and training to break an arm."

"So you think I was reacting on your instincts?"

"It is possible, but it is only my hypothesis."

She gave him a wary look. "Is he okay?"

"Few people have ever died of a broken wrist. Dr. Sendak has mended the fracture and he is quite well."

"I'd like to apologize to him."

"I can arrange that," he agreed.

She sighed. "So what now?"

"You have already asked that."

"Oh."

"Are you hungry?" he queried.

"I could eat."

He guided her to the kitchen, noting she walked slowly so as to observe the house. "You have a very lovely home."

"Thank you," he replied. In many ways, he himself was seeing it for the first time through a set of human eyes. "The staff is gone and I have little experience with cooking, but there is a replicator. It is likely there are also fruits and vegetables in the preserver that require little preparation."

"Why do you keep a staff in a house you don't live in and haven't been to in years?" He watched her escort his body to the replicator and pause at the screen. The touch of a finger illuminated the display, revealing lines of loopy text he supposed she could not read.

He joined his dinner companion at the replicator. "This house has been consistently occupied by a member of my family or a caretaker for more than six centuries. It is my duty to maintain it."

She formed her mouth into a strange shape. "Six hundred years, huh? Are you like part of a Vulcan royal dynasty or something?"

"No. But Vulcans do place great significance on family."

"Are all Vulcans colorblind?" she asked, glancing around the room. "Or just you?"

He wondered at her ability to change subjects so readily. "Vulcans are able to perceive light wavelengths between 750 and 550 nanometers."

"I'm not really sure what that means."

"I thought you were an educator."

"I teach middle school language arts. I've had basic courses in science but it's been a few years since I've thought about things like visible light."

"I believe humans describe light wavelengths around 500 nanometers as being green, 450 nanometers as blue, and 380 nanometers as violet. Beyond that is ultraviolet light."

Miss Grayson turned her gaze to the shirt on her human body and smirked. "It's so strange. Everything looks brown and orange."

"If I may ask, what is the color of the shirt I am currently wearing?"

"When you say _my_ shirt, do you mean the shirt on this body?" She gestured to her newly acquired Vulcan form. "Or the shirt I was wearing before we did a Freaky Friday?"

"This shirt," Sarek said, gripping the fabric of the garment encasing his torso. "And what is a Freaky Friday?"

A smile formed. "Freaky Friday is just some dumb old story that's been remade about a hundred times. And the shirt is green. The darker horizontal stripes are a navy-blue color, and the vertical ones are white."

"Fascinating." He was rather fond of the blue color.

"Not being able to see color is frustrating, but my hearing, _your_ hearing, is beyond anything I could imagine. I feel like I can hear your pulse from across the room."

Her comment made Sarek reflect upon how silent his own current existence trapped within her body was. "You very likely can."

"How do you cope that?"

"I do not know what I do not know. My perception of reality had remained constant my entire life until today. I am still marveling at the recent significant changes to my senses, just as you are."

She nodded and pointed to the replicator. "So what are we eating for dinner?"

Because she was unfamiliar with Vulcan cuisine, he suggested a hearty bowl of balkra, a casserole made with gourds and root vegetables. When a bowl appeared in the replicator below, she clapped in delight. "I feel like I can smell it down to my bones."

Sarek was surprised that he could hardly smell it at all, despite the ripples of steam pouring from the top of the dish. He made no remark about the deficiency of the human nose and replicated a bowl for himself. He turned to see her taking a seat at the round table where the kitchen staff often ate, but she didn't even make contact with the chair before she cried out and leapt to her feet.

"What is the matter?"

"I just—I sat and it—it _really_ hurt. Oh _wow_." Her face began to glow vivid green and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

It took a moment to realize she'd probably sat on his genitals. How was he supposed to explain to her how to properly sit when he couldn't even explain it to himself? Positioning himself to avoid injury to his external genitalia was just something his body did naturally because it knew no other way.

She gingerly slid back into the chair and Sarek took the seat opposite her, forcing himself to sit properly rather than flop out of utter exhaustion. He picked up his fork and put the first bite of balkra in the mouth, but nearly spit it out just as quickly. The savory dish he'd loved his whole life suddenly tasted like alkaline ash. He forced himself to swallow it and prepared to select a new meal from the replicator when his guest asked in a timid voice, "What's going to happen when we need to use the toilet? Or change clothes? Or shower?"

Sarek took a slow breath. He'd been avoiding thinking about this eventuality but it couldn't be ignored forever. "I trust we are both adults who have a general understanding of the basic biology of the opposite sex. I see no reason to make bodily functions a source of shame or impropriety."

"I feel like that's easier said than done," she said quickly, shoving a bite of food in her mouth.

And she was probably right but he could see no other way around it, short of denying themselves food and water for the next three days so as to avoid excreting any waste products. "Do we have any other choice?"

"No," she mumbled, quickly adding, "Anyway, this food is really good."

"I am glad you think so," he said, wishing he did also. What strange taste buds humans had.

"How's the rash on your—_my_ arms?"

The red wheals were contracting in size and intensity. "Improving."

"Good. You should eat. You're looking pale and kind of clammy."

"I am feeling rather poorly," he admitted. "Your human body is not well suited to the local climate."

She scowled and stretched her hand across the table. He reeled backward to dodge her unsolicited touch. "What are you doing?"

"Feeling your forehead. _My_ forehead. Are you running a fever?"

"Is your hand a thermometer?"

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Merely attempting to ascertain why you believe your hand, _my_ hand, is qualified to determine basal body temperature."

"Look, my body is on loan to you for the next three days. I'd like to get it back in good working order."

"Says a woman who just sat on my testicles."

She attempted to stifle a snort but failed. Her face began flushing green once again and almost just as quickly, Sarek's hives resumed itching. She quickly collected herself and said, "I'm sorry."

"I will do my best to care for your body," he replied. "But I ask that you do the same."

"I will," she insisted.

"There are things about Vulcan physiology you may not be familiar with. Many Vulcans, myself included, have tactile telepathic abilities. Touching other people, particularly their faces, can lead to telepathic exchange."

She turned a hand over and observed the palm. "Like, I can read your mind by touching your face. _My_ face?"

"I am not certain," he confessed. "As I previously stated, your consciousness is inhabiting my brain, and the Vulcan midbrain is considerably more developed than a human's. I would prefer to avoid anything that might risk unwanted telepathic contact between us."

"What is it _like_, to be able to touch someone and read their mind?" she mused, turning her hand over.

"Mind melding is not generally synonymous with mind reading."

"Then explain it to me."

"I would prefer to discuss something else."

"What else is there to discuss? Besides, we have three days to hide out in your house and pretend like this isn't the most bizarre and awkward thing that's ever happened to either of us. As far as I can see, we have plenty of time to discuss all kinds of things."

"I'm afraid we do not."

She peered at him. "What do you mean?"

"I have a very peculiar proposition. One relating to an urgent diplomatic matter."

She shoved another bite of balkra in her mouth and gave him an expectant look.

"When I agreed to ferry the delegates from the Federation Teacher's Union to Vulcan on my private shuttle, the offer was made out of practicality rather than pure hospitality. I was already traveling to Vulcan and I simply had space available. It was a matter of economy."

"Okay? So?"

"I returned to Vulcan to meet with T'lel Z'auul, the interim governor of Nausicaa."

He could see the muscles in her face twitch. She pointed her fork at him and asked, "Don't you think that's going to be weird when you show up looking like that?"

"Yes."

"So it sounds like you're going to have to postpone your meeting."

"That is not ideal for two reasons. The governor is due to arrive tomorrow and the situation we are planning to discuss is very dire."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you familiar with the Nausicaan cartels and the Orion Syndicate?"

The blank expression he received in response indicated she was not.

"In the past decade, infighting among the cartels and with Orion Syndicate has led to attacks on ninety civilian Federation vessels and resulted in more than one hundred deaths. The Federation has been slow to acknowledge the problem because of the sporadic nature of the violence. However, three months ago, the leader of the Orion Syndicate was assassinated and the Syndicate has openly declared war on Nausicaa. The Federation would prefer to avoid taking sides, but there are currently thirty-one civilian Federation ships unable to return to Federation space due to a Nausicaan blockade."

"You mean the Nausicaans are keeping them prisoner?"

"I am not certain that is the best way to describe the situation, but it could easily escalate to that. Or worse. There are currently 461 Federation citizens trapped in that sector."

She set the fork into the bowl of balkra. "And what are you supposed to do? Negotiate with them?"

"I was asked to negotiate with Governor Z'auul directly in the hopes we could come to an agreement on the safe return of these civilians."

"Why _you_ though? I thought you were the Vulcan ambassador to Earth."

"I am, but I am also uniquely qualified to mediate this dispute. My first posting with the Vulcan Diplomatic Service was as an aide to the Vulcan ambassador to Nausicaa. I and worked closely with Z'auul. He was not governor then, but rather a deputy foreign secretary. I know him well and he has asked to speak with me personally regarding this matter. I do not believe he will speak with anyone else."

"How do you plan to convince him that you really are who you are when you show up wearing an Amanda costume?"

"What is an Amanda costume?" he asked, unfamiliar with the term.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Me. _I'm_ Amanda. Amanda Grayson."

"I see. I did not know your given name. And no, I do not intend to present myself to him in this form. I hoped I could persuade you to speak with Governor Z'auul, presenting yourself as me."

"You've lost your mind," she murmured.

"No, my mind is intact. I've lost my body."

"I'm not so sure you haven't also lost your mind," she insisted. "I don't know anything about diplomacy or Nausicaa or _you_. You expect me to pretend to be you? And not only that, but also talk this guy you used to know into letting hundreds of people come home?"

"I would not be asking you to do this if I could conceive of any other way,"

"You want me to negotiate with a Nausicaan?"

"I thought I made that very clear."

"You did, it's just _insane_. Aren't they more than two meters tall? With tusks? And I heard they kill people on a whim. What if I say the wrong thing and he skewers me? Or _you_, since this is your body? Then I'm dead and you're stuck in _my_ body for the rest of your life."

"Nausicaans do have a reputation for short tempers and violence," he agreed, ignoring the dark look of alarm spreading on her face. "But T'lel Z'auul is no fool. He will be alone and he understands the repercussions of murdering a Vulcan ambassador in his own home."

"And those repercussions are somehow worse than holding hundreds of Federation civilians hostage?"

"The Nausicaans do not wish to go to war with the Federation any more than we wish to go to war with them, but if they temporarily suspend their blockade as a favor to us, the Orions will suspect we are allied against them, and war with the Orions would be disastrous."

"Why?"

"I am reluctant to divulge many more details about the intended plan unless I know I have your cooperation. Much of this information is classified."

Miss Grayson covered her face with her hands. "If I don't do this, hundreds of people might die?"

"If you don't do this, it is quite possible the Federation will be drawn into a war that could kill millions."

He watched his own face grow exceptionally pale. She mumbled, "I think I'm going to be sick."

"The stakes are high and the cost of failure will be also," he admitted. "But there is little to lose from trying. I can only ask that you try."

"Alright. So where do we start?"

* * *

"You are slouching again."

Amanda glowered at the image of herself in the mirror. It was maddening taking directions from a man wearing her body, pacing circles around her and judging her ability to pass for him. Even though it was _her_ body, there had been a few times she wanted to smack that smug look right off the face he was borrowing.

She looked at the body she was currently stuck in and thought it looked a little rough around the edges. His hair was getting greasy and there was a definite five o'clock shadow forming on the lower half of his face. It was rough like sandpaper and she was fascinated by rubbing it.

"Stop touching your face," he ordered. "And stop scowling."

"We've been at this for hours," she groaned, dropping her hands by her sides.

How long had it been since she last slept? Strange to think she wasn't really tired. Her human counterpart looked _awful_. He _smelled_ awful too, which was a bit embarrassing considering it was her body generating the unpleasant odor. It was probably due to a combination of her heightened sense of smell and the fact that her human body was generously sweating in the thick heat of the Vulcan climate.

"And in that time, what have you learned about the governor's life?"

She rolled her eyes. "He was born on the Lulal colony."

"_Lu_-lal," he corrected, emphasizing the first syllable. "And the final consonant should barely be pronounced."

"I _swear_ that's what I said," she snapped.

"It is not what you said," he insisted. Before she could argue, he continued his interrogation. "How many brothers does the governor have?"

"Two."

"Three."

"No," she contended. "He has two _living_ brothers. He killed the youngest one in a dispute over ownership of some sword thingy."

"His mother's familial saber," he corrected. "Transfer of weapons through maternal lineage is a crucial part of Nausicaan culture."

"This is hopeless," she replied, turning around to face him. "He's never going to believe I'm you."

"If you would only focus—"

"You've had a whole lifetime to absorb this stuff," she interrupted. "This is literally the story of _you_. You can't reasonably expect me to be able to regurgitate everything you've learned and experienced over the past sixty _years_ in one night."

He collapsed in the arm chair next to the long mirror and steepled his hands. His PADD dinged moments later and as he read the message, Amanda got the distinct impression it wasn't good news. "What's wrong?"

"My aide has tried to gently persuade Governor Z'auul to postpone the meeting for two more days, but he refuses, as I knew he would. He will arrive in eight hours and wishes to be brought directly to me for a private meeting. My aide requests an immediate answer for how I intend to proceed."

"I'm trying. I _tried_," she insisted. "I just don't think it was realistic to think we could pull this off."

"There is another option," he said, speaking slowly as if in disbelief that he was even speaking at all.

Amanda resisted the urge to slap him. "There's another option you waited to tell me until _now_? Like you thought it was funny making me believe that if I couldn't act like you convincingly enough, lot of people were going die?"

"This option would also require you to pose as me. It is not preferable, but I believe it may work."

"Then let's do it, whatever it is."

"It would involve mind melding."

Amanda froze. "You mean that mind reading you told me about over dinner?"

"Mind reading is a very crude and inaccurate approximation of what a mind meld is," he replied, leaning his head back against the overstuffed chair and closing his eyes. "But it would allow us to channel each other's thoughts. If the meld were significantly powerful, we would be able to communicate without speaking."

"At this point, why not?" she cried, throwing up her hands.

"You are slouching."

"So are you," she retorted. "And how can you even tell? Your eyes are closed."

He opened his eyes and glared at her. "Mind melding is a very serious endeavor and given the nature of our current predicament, I cannot be certain it will work."

Amanda took a deep breath. "Before all this happened, did you really think you could meet with this governor and convince him to let those people go and avoid a war?"

"I did."

"And do you really think if we do this mind meld thing that you can still persuade him through me?"

"I am somewhat less convinced," he admitted. "But I believe it _is_ possible."

His PADD dinged again and then a second time and Amanda didn't need to ask who it was from or what they wanted. "Let's do it."

"You are sure?"

"Not really. But I don't want to quit knowing there was something else I could have tried. I don't want a war on my conscience."

His expression softened in a way Amanda had never seen. He almost looked normal. _Pleased_, even. "I should warn you that mind melding is an extremely intimate process."

"More intimate that literally being stuck in the body of an alien of the opposite sex?" she pressed, trying to block out the memories from several hours ago when she'd been squirming from an overfull bladder and he'd finally ordered her to go take care of it.

He rose to his feet and Amanda approached him, practicing the gliding and commanding stride he'd struggled to instill in her in their hours of parading back and forth down the hallway like they were participating in the universe's most ridiculous fashion show. She cocked her head and waited for his commentary. "Better?"

"You still insist on stomping," he sighed.

She gave him a pained smile. "And you look awful, by the way. You have bags under your eyes and your makeup is running."

"We are very poor impressionists of one another," he agreed.

"So how do we do this mind melding?"

"Under these unique circumstances, I can think of two possible ways. Telepathic abilities stem from the thick Vulcan midbrain, which is currently under your control. If you will use my Vulcan hand to touch your human face, I will attempt to form a connection between us."

"Right or left?" she asked, holding up both hands.

He gently took her right hand by the wrist. Amanda had never noticed until then just how tiny her hands really were; willowy pink fingers stuffed with slender bones and sinewy muscle. His touch produced a tingling sensation that took Amanda by surprise and she marveled at the feeling as he worked her fingers into an unusual position before placing the hand on his sweaty cheek. Amanda closed her eyes, uncertain what he expected her to do.

Then her world instantly expanded. "_My mind to your mind_," he whispered. "_My thoughts to your thoughts_."

"What?"

"_Relax_," he insisted, though she got the distinct impression no words were actually being uttered aloud.

Flashes of pictures began to stream through her mind, short flickers at first that quickly flowed into rapidly shifting imagery. Years passed by in seconds and her heart swelled with memories and fleeting emotions. When he pulled away from the hand on his face, it was a shock to have such an overwhelming experience end so abruptly.

When she reopened her eyes, she found herself staring into the pale pools of her own eyes, strangely feeling like she knew Ambassador Sarek better than she knew herself.

"Try to compose yourself," he ordered.

She blinked furiously. How could he be so nonchalant about what had just happened? "That was incredible."

He couldn't conceal his obvious exasperation at her wonderment. "We only have eight more hours until the governor is due to arrive on my doorstep. Mind melding will help facilitate your impersonation of me, but we still have much work to do."

They practiced walking again and he drilled her on questions relating to his time spent with Governor Z'auul in the Nausicaan capitol twenty-eight years earlier. Then they reviewed the complex history of Nausicaan and Orion relations and how the Federation fit into the story. Amanda needed occasional prompting, but as the hours ticked on and she grew more adept at deciphering his mental clues, her answers flowed more naturally.

Unfortunately, their trick only seemed to work when they were in extremely close proximity to each other. They tried training themselves by melding several more times to see if they could increase the distance over which they could communicate telepathically, but the best they could manage was approximately two meters apart before Amanda could no longer distinctly interpret his thoughts.

After trying and failing to communicate with each other in separate rooms, Amanda suggested they take another break for Sarek's sake. He was more haggard-looking than ever and the hives appeared to be returning. She'd joked that they always seemed to flare up whenever she became increasingly emotional or frustrated, as though he were allergic to watching himself have an outburst, but he dismissed her theory as illogical. She wasn't convinced.

He sank into one of the hard chairs at the kitchen table and without being asked, she brought him a glass of water and took a seat next to him. "We tried really hard."

"We still have two hours. And you are still slouching."

She straightened her back and sighed. "You look like you're about to collapse from exhaustion."

"Your human form is very delicate," he confessed. "How do humans manage to be productive with such excessive demands for rest?"

"Well, most of the time we sleep regularly and aren't being punished by intense heat and gravity so that makes living in our weak little bodies a lot more manageable."

He gave her a pained look. "I did not mean to insult you."

"You didn't. Anyway, do you have any other ideas? Any last-minute options you've been squirreling away in that marvelous mind of yours that probably should have mentioned upfront?"

"Your performance _has_ improved."

"Not enough, apparently."

"No," he conceded.

"What if you were able to be there in the room with me?"

"Governor Z'auul demands to meet with me alone."

"I understand that, but what if you posed as my personal assistant or a house servant or something?"

A spark entered his eyes. "The governor would find that suspicious, but he might be willing to accept your presence if he believed you were my wife."

Amanda was too tired to laugh at his ludicrous suggestion. "A Vulcan having a human personal assistant is too weird but a human wife is perfectly normal?"

"As I said earlier, Nausicaans place a particular importance on family. Since you cannot pass as a female blood relative, the only option is for you to appear as my wife. I have been Vulcan ambassador to Earth for four years. It is not unreasonable to think I might have taken a human wife. If he believed you were the lady of this house, he would accept your presence, or rather _my_ presence, without question."

She searched his eyes, curious to see if he was so tired he was delirious. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I would not have suggested it if I were not."

Amanda folded her oversized Vulcan hands on the table and snickered to herself. "I guess after all the personal boundaries we've obliterated over the past twenty-four hours, why not pretend to be married too?"

"If we are agreed, then I will inform—"

"You _really_ think he'll go for it?" she interrupted.

"We can only try."

She offered him an anxious, thin-lipped smile. "Well then, _wife_, we have company arriving in less than two hours. Are we serving cocktails? Dinner?"

"Nausicaans largely consume raw animal flesh. Governor Z'auul will know not to expect a meal from me, at least not one _he_ would prefer to eat."

"So no on the hors d'oeuvres then."

He scanned her and stiffened. She wasn't sure if it was the lingering mind meld between them or the fact that it was so plainly obvious, but she knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

"There are matters of hygiene we ought to consider. Firstly, you will need to shave."

Amanda probed the stubble on her chin and winced. "How hard can it be?"

"It is quite easy to burn yourself with a laser trimmer if you are inexperienced."

She nodded. "And I really hate to point this out, but you _stink_. You've been sweating all night. And we both have oily hair and skin."

They both sat in silence for nearly a minute, avoiding each other's gaze. "As I said earlier, we are both adults—"

"Let's just get it done," she said, dying a little inside as the words flew out of her mouth so quickly they all slurred into one.

"Would you find the idea more tolerable if you were present?"

She sneered, initially horrorstruck at the thought of watching someone _else_ wash her body, but as she turned the idea over in her mind several times, she decided it really was kind of chivalrous. "Would you be okay with that?"

"It is why I offered."

"Do you want to be there when I shower?"

"I trust you will not do anything untoward with my body, but I would at least like to be present when you attempt to shave."

Doom and humiliation set in as they made the long march upstairs to his bathroom. "All of the clothes I packed are in my suitcase in the other room. And I'm not exactly sure what to wear when meeting a Nausicaan governor."

"The aesthetic would be more believable if you presented yourself in clothing styled after the Vulcan fashion."

She smirked. "I marry a Vulcan and all of a sudden I can't wear human clothes?"

"Vulcans pride themselves on tradition dress."

"Well, silly me. I up and left Earth without packing a single stitch of Vulcan clothing."

He cast a wry look in her direction and wandered into a room adjacent to his bedroom. Behind another door were rows and rows of neatly-hanging dresses. Amanda supposed they were all very lovely, but they all appeared to be varying shades of yellow, orange, brown, and red. The ambassador meanwhile seemed awestruck by this bounty of women's clothes.

He gently touched the sleeve of an elegant silken dress with a large cowl. "They are so…_different_."

"Whose clothes are these?" she asked, curious why he would keep such a wardrobe.

"They were my mother's."

She would have been lying to herself if she said she didn't notice the distinct sadness in his voice. Rather than probe him on what was likely a very difficult topic when they were already so short of time she asked, "I take it they don't quite look the same as they used to now that you have color vision?"

"It is remarkable the things we do not appreciate simply because nature decided we had no need to." He pulled one of the dresses down and studied it. "I am unsure how to make a selection. Perhaps it would be better if you chose."

Amanda fingered the fabric of one of the gowns. They were all floor-length and had long sleeves and she wondered how he'd be able to bear wearing so much fabric if he was already sweating through a t-shirt. To her surprise, the garment was impossibly soft and lightweight. "They're all nice but I can't really tell them apart. The colors are very similar. What do you think would be most comfortable and _breathable_?"

They pawed at the dresses and finally settled on something that Sarek said was a lighter version of the blue in his shirt. As far as she could tell, it was a weird mustard color. Amanda thought it might be a little too large, but there was no time for tailoring. She collected her bag from the guest room and joined him in his bedroom to find he was laying out a silvery black shirt with an angular collar and a sensible pair of trousers.

"This will be acceptable for you to wear."

"It's nice," she agreed.

They resumed their awkward détente of staring at each other without actually looking at each other. The bathroom loomed large in the distance, as inviting as a scaffold.

"We do not have much time," he finally said.

"No. Let's just do this."

His master bathroom was mercifully dimly lit, covered in black countertops and flooring. She briefly toyed with the idea of asking him to turn out the lights completely, but the last thing she wanted was to blindly bump into him while in a state of undress. She was pleased beyond measure to find a sonic shower. They could just stand there and let sonic pulses wipe away the filth, minimal rubbing and scrubbing required.

The shower was large—approximately four-square meters. She touched the clear glass and it instantly became frosted. "You have a really nice bathroom." She cringed. What a dumb thing to say.

"Would you like to go first or should I?" he asked, hanging two black robes on hooks next to the shower door.

"What if we just did it at the same time?"

"You imply we should shower _together_?"

"I don't mean we should wash each other's backs or anything," she replied quickly. "But it's not like we've never seen ourselves naked. The shower seems plenty big enough. And it _would_ save time. Not to mention we still have two more days of this after meeting the governor. Let's just get over our prudish modesty for both our sakes."

He gave a small nod and began to reach for the bottom of the green shirt while she tried to figure out how to unbutton his high collar. They instinctively turned their backs on one another. When Amanda slid his trousers down to reveal a pair of lean legs covered in a thin layer of wiry black hair, heat began rising in her cheeks. Now all that was left was the underwear and her earlier demand that they both just grow up flew right out the window.

She heard him grunting behind her and cringed. "Can you assist me?"

She turned to see him struggling with the clasp on the bra. She closed her eyes, swallowed, and stepped forward, gently taking the band between her fingers. He looked upward out of respect. She adored him for that.

"So that's our policy then?" she asked as the bra fell away to the floor. "Head and eyes straight forward?"

"That is acceptable to me," he replied.

Without even looking in the remote direction of each other or at themselves, they slipped off their underwear at the same time and nearly raced to the shower, their eyes refusing to focus on any one thing for fear of being thought inappropriate. What ensued was the fastest, weirdest shower of her life.

Sonic showers were considered a luxury on Earth. They were now standard on all ships due to the hazards of so much open water in an environment that could lose gravity but were usually only seen planetside in high end hotels and brand-new housing units. She'd been so excited to discover the ambassador's ship came equipped with them and had taken an hour-long shower on the first day of their journey. Ordinarily she loved the sensation: the vibrations, the feeling of grime being melted away from her body.

This shower turned out to be little more than an exercise in mortifying absurdity. As soon as the pulses began, they both raised their arms to allow the beams to reach every part of their skin. She massaged her scalp, trying to fluff out his wiry Vulcan hair so it could get adequately cleaned. He seemed to be struggling with the mechanics of washing a thick mane of long brown tresses, but rather than offer him tips or advice, she just turned her back and closed her eyes.

When she felt the pulses stop, they exited the shower and groped for the black robes, stuffing arms through sleeves and cinching ties around their waists in record time. And that was that. They'd survived the worst part, but unfortunately there was still more to go.

"Should we get dressed first or…what?" she mused.

She handed him a pair of socks and underwear and a clean bra from her luggage and cringed at the realization that if he had struggled to get her bra _off_, he was probably going to find putting one on even more difficult. The look on his face suggested he was thinking the same thing.

"Here," she said softly. "If you just drop the top of the robe and turn around, I'll help you."

He did as she asked and she reached the gray brassiere over his head, patiently waited for him to maneuver his arms through the straps, and then pulled the band into position on his back and fastened it with shaking hands. It suddenly occurred to her just how small she really was. Or maybe he was just that much larger.

They adjourned to separate rooms to finish dressing, with him staying in the bathroom and her excusing herself to the bedroom. What had appeared to be a fairly straightforward ensemble proved to be much trickier than she might have guessed. Was she supposed to tuck the undershirt in? Was there a belt? The outer shirt had a series of buttons winding up the left side of the chest and she tried folding one flap over another, but that seemed wrong.

She was about to give up and ask for his help but when she turned around, she was startled to find him standing by the bathroom door. It surprised her to see herself in a Vulcan dress. It seemed both perfectly natural and perfectly weird, like equal parts of a little girl playing dress up and a grown woman commanding an elegant gown.

She cast a hopeless glance at her open shirt. Neither of them spoke a word as he approached and straightened the collar, tucked the exposed flap under the inner fold, and began buttoning it.

"I wasn't sure if I should tuck in this undershirt or if—"

"This is acceptable," he said, standing back to observe the body that had once been his.

"You look—_I _look—really nice," she mumbled, motioning to the dress.

"You are slouching," he sighed, tucking his hands behind his back.

"I'll work on it," she said, giving him a half-hearted smile. "Speaking of which, if you're going to be there, maybe you could try to look a little more human?"

His brow furrowed slightly. "I suppose you intend to suggest I smile?"

"Only if you don't think it will kill you or make the hives worse," she said, shooting him a wink.

"A Vulcan would never wink," he protested.

"But a _human_ might, if they were sufficiently amused."

Amanda shook her head at the words that had just slipped out of her mouth. _Sufficiently amused_? That sounded more like something _he_ would say.

"And don't stand with your hands behind your back like that," she added.

"It is widely considered to be a neutral, non-threatening posture," he argued.

"I have never stood like that in my entire life."

He dropped his arms to his sides, but that just made him look awkward and out of place.

She grunted. "Try to loosen your body."

"You mean slouch, as you do?"

"I don't slouch!"

"You don't carry your body with any degree of confidence," he argued.

"I'm _confident_," she retorted. "I'm just not overly proud."

"Is that how you see me?" he asked.

"I won't lie, when I first met you I thought you were a little stiff and boring."

"You imply your opinion has changed."

"I've spent the last day trying to pretend to _be_ you," she laughed. "It turns out you've got a great sense of dry humor, even if it's subtle."

He considered her observation. "Fascinating."

"Anyway, you still have to show me how to shave and we should probably do something with your hair."

The laser trimmer turned out to be a similar concept to the device she'd seen her father use once upon a time—a wand-like instrument that looked like a futuristic potato peeler. When he placed it in her hand and tried to show her how to turn her face so as to get the best coverage, her finger hit a button on the wand, sending a jolt of searing pain through her neck.

He grabbed a towel and held it over the injury with a firm grip, and when he pulled it away Amanda was equal parts horrified and fascinated to see the light-colored cloth was dotted with slightly-greenish orange blood. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"A minor burn," he said, extracting a small box from under the sink covered in loopy Vulcan text that turned out to be a first aid kit.

It took ten minutes with the dermal regenerator to repair the singed skin, but his touch was gentle and tender. Was that because they were _her_ hands, or because he was the one using them?

"Perhaps you would acquiesce and allow me to shave you?" he asked, collecting the laser trimmer from the black countertop.

She nodded. "We're running out of time."

"it would be easier if you were to sit," he said, pulling a vanity stool from beneath the counter.

She did as he instructed. She was surprised to see how the process shaving another person could be so intimate: the light touches, close proximity, and trust that were required. He worked quickly but skillfully and the sensation of the laser blasting away the newly formed facial hair was bizarre.

"It tickles," she laughed.

"Please remain still," he replied, casting a quick glance at her. "But yes, it does."

She fought back a smile and let him finish. The end result was surgical smoothness. Next, he trimmed the smallest millimeter off his bangs, measuring the final angles of his hairline with a laser ruler, then dabbed a light oil on his fingertips and wove his fingers through his mop of coarse black hair. When he was finished, she sported hair that was precise, severe, and sinfully shiny.

"What do you intend to do with this hair?" he asked, gesturing to her chestnut locks.

"I'm not really sure," she admitted. "You're the one who thought it would be a good idea to wear Vulcan clothes, but I'm not really sure how to recreate a Vulcan woman's hairstyle. What if we just did a neat bun at the back of the neck?"

He nodded and took her place on the low vanity stool. She was as skilled as any average woman in styling her own hair, but not from another person's point of view. She ran a brush through it and tried and failed several times to twist it into something elegant. When she caught sight of his stern expression in the mirror, she stifled a laugh.

"Remember what I told you about trying to _look_ human?"

"You want me to smile?"

"You could try?"

He sighed, the hearty and resigned kind of sigh a person would give upon being assigned a very unpleasant task, and turned the corners of his mouth upward. The result was too creepy for words.

"You look like you're going to murder someone," she snorted.

"What am I doing wrong?"

"You have to use your whole face. So much of a smile is conveyed with the eyes."

He shot her a bewildered look and tried again with only slightly better success.

"Maybe it would help if you actually thought about something that made you happy. And maybe show a little less teeth so it looks more like a smile than a snarl?"

His third attempt was slightly better and she urged him to watch her in the mirror and attempt to mimic her while she fixed his hair into a bun. The more she used his Vulcan face to offer casual smiles for him to copy, the more he seemed to scratch at his arms, which were now covered in long sleeves and hiding the hives.

They put the finishing touches on each other, with Amanda dabbing a little concealer underneath his eyes to hide the dark circles and the ambassador using a little brush to smooth out his upswept eyebrows. They brushed their teeth, donned their shoes, and made their way downstairs with ten minutes to spare.

Ambassador Sarek sent a message to his aide indicating they were ready to receive the governor, then there was nothing else to do but wait.

"I just want to let you know this has been the strangest day of my life," she mused.

"I have had many strange days in my sixty-three years, but this is the strangest for me as well."

"Good," Amanda said, biting back a snicker.

"Will you consent to another mind meld to fortify our telepathic link?"

She swallowed and nodded, offering her right hand for him to place on his face. She expected the same whirl of emotion and imagery, but this time there was something _else_ there too. She couldn't identify it but it made her intensely curious. She dared herself to open her eyes and found her own pale-colored eyes staring back at her. He ripped his face back to sever the link between them before she could make any sense of what she was experiencing.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

His answer was swift and short. "Yes. And you are slouching."

"And you're not smiling," she countered, flashing him a toothy smirk.

His eyes narrowed and he turned to face the door. "There is one other thing."

"What's that?"

"Bonded Vulcan couples often practice ozh'esta. The word does not translate well—the closest approximation is a finger embrace."

"A finger _what_?"

He held up the two first fingers of his left hand and held them out to her. "Vulcan mates frequently touch fingers. It is a widely-practiced and socially acceptable public display of affection. The governor will know this. If we are to be convincing, perhaps we should do it also. I believe it will also have the added benefit of enhancing our telepathic link."

"So if I get stuck on something, I should just finger kiss you?"

He gave her an exasperated look and stretched out his two fingers even further. "Model your hand after mine."

She did. He touched their fingers together in an action that seemed almost reminiscent of knights crossing swords. It felt…funny. It was pleasing and nice and he was right, it made her feel more attuned to his mind.

He ripped his fingers away rather quickly. "There is no need to engage in such behavior until the governor arrives."

Almost as if on cue, a faint light appeared through the thick frosted glass of a nearby window, indicating their guest had just been beamed in. They stood facing the door, both of them waiting with baited breath. Sarek lifted his two slender human forefingers and Amanda joined his thick Vulcan ones to them.

"This is wild," she muttered.

She startled at the sound of a thunderous knock but sensed him saying, "_Be calm. Control your face_._Remember the plan_."

She gave a slow nod and reached a hand to open the front door.

"Good luck," he said softly.

"Isn't believing in luck illogical?" she asked.

"Nothing about this is logical," he whispered in reply. "But I trust you."

"Don't forget to smile," she reminded him.

She flashed him an awkward grin before taming her face back into a classically neutral Vulcan expression, then opened the door to destiny.


End file.
